Dawning of an Age (Full Version)

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An Abstract Thought -> Dawning of an Age (5/18/2009 21:59:13)

Book 1: The Dawning of an Age


Chapters


Will link following posts to this post to allow for quick access, it will likely be a while before I get all of the chapters up so bare with me.



An Abstract Thought -> RE: Dawning of an Age (5/18/2009 22:00:23)

Chapter 1: The Rain and Silence



Chaos, confusion... is this what the world was descending towards? mused Dante as he sat above it all in his quiet tree. The world will do as it pleases... and I, well I will do the same. And that was true enough, for the past few years it had been like this. Chaos and Order were merely words to describe the varying shades of grey, and to Dante’s unseeing eyes they both meant the same thing... Someone was bound to come out on top and someone else, well, someone else would end up on the bottom. It was the way of the City, it was the way of the world, and there wasn’t a thing to be done to change it... That of course was why he sat as he did. Always looking down upon the turmoil and the triumph of others -- his own long since lost and forgotten in the forests of his birth. A book in hand, a dry branch to serve as his seat and the ever changing winds his only companions. It was the way he liked things, the way he would prefer that they stay -- though he knew they would not.

The rain fell, each droplet its own mystery. The water was like a tranquil whisper as it trickled and rolled along the nooks and cracks that peppered the bark of that ancient tree. Their carefree paths had always served as fascination to the wandering mind of this elf of constant darkness. Their wayward trails traced wonderful patterns through the air with which he linked himself to the goings on of the world below. And their unconcerned flow, as they slid from branch to leaf to branch once more, could hold his attention far longer then even the most interesting of events below. “The Tears of Creation...” he murmured to himself as he turned another page in his book (which, miraculously remained dry no matter how hard the rain fell upon the defenseless earth below), “They make all things new... the world will be made fresh with their passing once more.” It was a sentiment he voiced whenever the renewing water fell from the sky. Maybe the words were his own way of calling for change, maybe they were just a sentiment he heard as a child. The truth of the matter was Dante could not really tell you why he said many of the things he said... and if he tried, more often then not he would claim them to be the words of the ghosts. Actually, he got a wonderful kick out of that rumor, to think that anyone had such control over spirits dead and gone had always seemed like fanciful nonsense to him. The rumor afforded him a cushion of uncertainty within which he could more easily find the solitude which he so often sought.

Wistfully he ducked his head into the book that lay upon his lap, but the thoughts had already begun and he knew very well that such a thing could not be so easily stopped. It had been so for nigh on twelve years and no amount of wishful thinking nor even the most enthralling novel would dissuade this inevitable flood of memories from breaking upon the uneasy shores of his troubled mind. Such was the nature of the rain, for along with its refreshing peace came its unsettling chill. Moreover, he could already hear the soft voice of his first, and only, love and behind her warm and comforting tones came the amiable laughter of his son. How he missed them both, the warm touch of his wife’s hug and the ever-ready smile that seemed always to grace the innocent face of his boy. Then, just as suddenly, the scene changed. In place of the fading backdrop of that happy summer day, in that forgotten forest glade, came a scene of much less cheer and… the sting of tears that had long since dried but never gone away: the empty house, the broken door, both grim reminders of the crushing blow their disappearance had brought him.

Twelve years had passed since that convoluted year of dreams both new and old, and twelve more would likely follow without so much as a word of light to shine upon the murk of his clouded past. At first Dante had done what any other would have in his place, searching both high and low for but a whisper of their names. And as the years crept on his own inhibitions faded away; no longer was he above both murder and crime. For a time the bodies lay strewn upon the circuitous path of his search! But all that was past, for as with all things the flowing sands of time made numb the wound once more.

His conscience returned and his bloodied hands no longer held a promise of family, instead only shame was clutched so tight within their crimson grasp. And so he sat alone, devoid of motivation and purpose both. A weary soul cast aside by the ever-changing, never-caring tides of fate. Then as the memories faded, and the stinging tears subsided, Dante closed his book once more. Turning now to the only other comfort afforded him in his chosen solitude, his music.

“Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,” he sang aloud; but to himself, as his hand fell softly across the strings of his lute, “Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.” With each passing moment his words grew louder, their potent meaning only adding to the haunting melody that poured forth from the worn lute. And so he sang, “I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?” (Poem is “But a Dream Within a Dream” by Poe)

He was so engrossed within his song that he never heard the soft fall of feet upon the ground beneath his quiet tree, nor the rustling sounds that would normally announce the approach of another being to his well-trained ears.

Her name was Miran, that young elf who followed the innocent musings of the notes upon the wind. She often sat beneath that imposing oak at the coming of the rain, simply listening to the haunting music that descended from its lofty branches. Many times she would even wake hours later to find the rain and the music long since stopped, while others still she would sit awake until the late hours of the night on the fading chance that the singer would descend from the heights. Today, like every rainy day, she had walked to the tree and leaned upon its wide base. Her gaze inched its way towards the top the watchful eyes ever eager to find the source of the music that called her so.

But not once in nigh on a year had she seen the man who sat and sang in the leaves above, and never once had she heard him even move as the last notes of each fading song echoed themselves into the oblivion carried within the fog of time. She had even asked of the songs within the outer reaches of the city. Often hearing the tales of an elf that wandered the transient places between outer wall and inner forest… fanciful stories of ghosts and hidden demons, always with different name. And so she gave up on the gossip of the outer quarters, content to sit and listen… sit and watch.

Dante, from his perch above, could have easily seen the girl resting below if not for the occupation of his mind with the dreams and nightmares of the past and future. His song had ended but his mind was far from at peace within itself, and his anxious thoughts seemed to spiral around the common theme of his life these past few years. He was a criminal, that much was true. Death and suffering, theft and smuggling had been the entirety of his trade for much longer then he would have preferred. This was not the path he had chosen -- it was the path chosen for him by the events that shrouded his past in a heavy darkness and an uncertain shadow.

This night he would stain that path yet a darker shade of black, for his thin wallet had grown empty while his heart grew heavy and the time would come when he would have to drown his memories in the bottom of a mug once more. So he resolved himself, long before he made his way into the tree, that with the next rain he would steal once more. Not much, a coin purse and maybe some food or trinkets were all he needed before he found himself another big job. But he needed them far more now than he would have had his last job suited him.

Dante was, in a word, strange. Even as a thief he could not bring himself to cross over to that morally grey area of the underworld, his targets; his jobs all focused upon stealing from the already crooked or the killing of a killer. And yes, it was still stealing and it was still killing. Dante had no illusions about his actions being just or fair. But he still had his honor, however tattered and frayed it was, and so he could not bring himself to kill without some higher reason nor steal without at least the excuse of fate.

“The sun will set in…a few short hours.” He murmured as he lifted his hand to shade his eyes, “Then I will have to make my move.” It was decided, not that there was ever a choice to begin with. His hand drifted to the innermost folds of his open cloak, and there they came to rest upon the cool wood that was the ornate hilt of his only weapon -- an elegant dagger. But what a dagger it was, the blade so thin and fine that even now, decades after its creation, the edge remained as sharp as when it was new-forged. The wooden handle, its elegant patterns not yet fading from the well used grip, remained as light and sturdy as when it had first been carved. Even the short inscription that adorned the narrow guard could be red as if it had just been written -- In the Darkness you will find the Light, and in the Shadows of Despair there is always a Flicker of Hope.

Just then the soft rustle of the leaves caused by the gentle wind and the muted coo of the little birds vanished. Dante almost lurched on his little branch as his mind went into a frenzy in a desperate attempt to fill the void that had always been the realm of noise within his mind. What had happened, he wondered as he twisted about to keep his balance, where did the sound go. And with that thought racing through his mind again and again Dante jumped from branch to branch in a hurried descent to the ground below. Under different circumstances the first thing he would have noticed was the not sleeping girl who had also been startled by the sudden lack of all things startling. But as it were his focus never even fell upon the little ring around the tree. His mind, in an attempt to make room for all these new thoughts of sounds and silences, had instantly assumed that that particular silence was more then enough of a reason for the place to be deserted -- how could it have been any other way?

Miran, on the other hand, was rather unaffected by the sudden lack of sound around her. The music that had drawn her to the tree had long since trailed off and with it her focus had fallen to more pressing matters, such as a much needed nap within the forest. What had startled her into a state of complete alertness (in fact what even led her to the utter lack of sound in the first place) was the movement above. She hardly moved at first, still unsure of the realness of what she was seeing. How long she had wished for just this very occurrence, the elusive singer that had held her as a captive audience for countless afternoons in the shade of that towering tree was on his way down. He really was on his way down!

Instantly she sprang to her feet, a soundless shout of joy echoed forth from her lips. Quickly her hand lifted to stifle the cry before it startled the man who now jumped from branch to branch. Wait… soundless, that gave her pause. Why was there no resounding shout of joy, in fact, why was there no soft rustling of leaves in the wind or muted call of the little birds that made each tree home? Why indeed was there no sound as the man above landed heavily upon each shaking branch? Then, just as suddenly as the little epiphany had come, her focus returned once more to the initial cause of her alarm. Yes, he was indeed still coming down, and now his features could just be made out against the shifting green backdrop of the leaves. He looks young, and old… she thought to herself all the while taking an involuntary step back towards the tree. Then came a soundless gasp as her glance centered upon the blindfold wrapped around his eyes, He’s blind? Almost instantly, and most definitely without thinking, she leapt forward in an attempt to save him from the fall. The only thought running through her mind was of the blind man’s safety, or it was until he landed softly upon the ground seemingly completely aware of his own surroundings.

“H-h-hello,” she murmured, still forgetting that the sound had, for some reason, been silence. But he turned, and the sticks and leaves between his feet rustled and crackled with the shifting weight. His stare, and it really did feel as if he was starring at her (or at least through her), was cold but surprised all the same, and it made her own fall gaze down towards her feet again. “I-I’m Miran…” she murmured meekly, “I was listening to your song.”

And with those few words Dante underwent a complete change. “Miran is it,” he mused, his hand drifting slowly from the folds of the cloak where his dagger lay concealed, “I used to know a Miran… a long time ago.” He had honestly known another elf with that same name… to be more specific he had married another elf with that same name, and then he had lost her. Bowing slowly Dante extended his hand to the young elf before him in the most polite manner he could muster (which if truth were told was far more awkward then anything you would see from even the most gauche of the denizens of the wealthier quarters). “I am Dante,” he continued as he began leading her back towards the city proper, “and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

For a while they walked on in what grew to be a very awkward silence. Miran unsure of whether this was really happening let alone what to say next, and Dante, never having really been too good at holding a conversation with others in a situation like this, was held within his startled daze. “Do you listen often…” he finally asked, falling into step beside her, “to the music I mean.”

And Miran could hardly control her reddening face as her utter embarrassment rose at the question. “Often enough,” she stammered, lifting her hand to cover her glowing cheeks from view. “You sing very well,” she murmured a few eternities later.

“Th-thank you…” he replied as he became enthralled in a particular set of trees to the side of the winding path.

They continued on as such all the way up to the wide and gaping gates of the city. One breaking the silence to ask of the other something that seemed to always bring another bout of awkward embarrassment. And then it would repeat in the opposite order after a few rather extended moments had passed between. At the gate they parted ways, each all too eager to be away from the unnatural silence and yet each equally sorry to break company with the other. “I guess I will see you in the forest again…” Dante muttered as his hand affixed itself to the back of his head and his eyes lifted towards the still setting sun.

“I guess,” came her reply, both hands entwined within each other about her waist and her own gaze falling towards the soft ground and green moss at their feet.

It was from there, the entrance between the fifth and sixth quarters of that sprawling city, that Dante parted ways with Miran and began his work for a much less pleasant pursuit of time. Under the growing veil of shadows that filled the night he slipped, soundlessly through the city streets. Here and there his passage would be marked by the swift glint of metal and the more permanent lightening of another’s belt.



An Abstract Thought -> RE: Dawning of an Age (5/18/2009 22:03:00)

Chapter 2: The Little House and the Big City



The city had descended into utter chaos and the streets were filled with the sounds of anger and confusion as the residents of Bel-Thuran searched for answers to the two most obvious question of the day. Shouts of “What happened to the sound?” and “Will it happen again?” could be heard in all corners of the vast city, but no answer could be found. Even the Enforcers and the scholars were at a loss about the events of the day, and in many places their voices joined the chorus of confusion that spread throughout.

But there was one who knew of the recent events and, from the shadows at the very back of the most central square of the city, just behind the growing crowd of unsettled citizens, he stood watching for the signal that would tell him to act. It wasn’t a complicated signal, and maybe that was for the best. In fact it was quite a simple one, hardly more complicated than a rather large bird flying overhead… and even that was complicated enough for him. “Isn’t the better question why?” came his echoing voice from the rear, just around those irritating shadows that refuse to go away no matter how hard the sun tries to out-shine them.

The din of confusion faded for a moment as each of the concerned citizens, and many of the far more concerned enforcers, looked desperately to either side in search of the source of this far too uncommon sense, but the man in the shadows was already long gone.

It had indeed been Lucas’s voice that had, only moments before, cut through the turmoil that the silence had brought. Lucas, however, had a simple list to follow. And while he moved from alley to alley he took a moment to begin unfolding the little square of paper to read it over one more time. There were only two simple tasks written and large letters and easy words on the little sheet of paper, the first a question he was to propose (this of course he had just done), and the second, even simpler than the first, to disappear without drawing attention to himself. But Lucas was not someone who ever had the problem of knowing too much, actually knowing much of anything beyond the things he had upon his daily checklists was quite the accomplishment for the man. So he stood there, close enough to just make out the new shouts of “Why?” that echoed forth from behind, and stared blankly at the list. To a passer by, had there been any to pass by, he would have been quite the sight… such a big man standing there looking at a list and counting things off on his fingers. Lucas had never been one for intelligence but that wasn’t such a problem for his line of work, he was a hired muscle and that meant thinking was not supposed to be his strong suit by any means. In most circles it was generally assumed that such men were far better off if they rarely thought at all (and in that there was no one better for the job).

Finally, after what must have been several minutes of standing and counting, a massive smile spread across Lucas’s dull features. “I dun good…” he murmured to himself as he started off once more.

Moving swiftly, or as swiftly as a six foot eight gorilla [place holder until I think of a set of animals for this world] of a man could without attracting too much undue attention, Lucas carried himself well away from the crowded square. His job was over and the chaos of the town made it simple for one of his unique skill to slip down the back streets without ever leaving the shadows that hid him from any lingering eyes. Miss Night will be so pleased with me, he thought happily to himself, she’ll give me something shiny, I hope. And with such blissful thoughts occupying the spacious caverns of his mind he brought his hulking girth to an abrupt halt just outside a house both far to small and far to old to belong in such a central place of such a large city.

Having been a hired muscle all his life, few things ever arose that Lucas could not solve with a few heavy hits to the head. Moreover, when they eventually did he would usually hit them anyway, until, of course, Zen arrived to make them go away.

“He always knows everything.” Lucas beamed, as his mind wandered slowly, ever so slowly, towards thoughts of his partner. There was something about the tall, almost lanky man, maybe it was how he always seemed to know which of the cowering men Lucas was to eliminate, that commanded Lucas’s respect.

The little house on the other hand did not seem to have any balance at all; its tattered and sagging ceiling was not made up for by the creeping vines and countless spider cracks that decorated its crumbling walls, and the fading finish that might once have covered the rotting woodwork of the place had not been replaced as nicely with the new layer of fussy green carpeting that seemed to grow in patches from the damper sections. No, the little house was just as it appeared… and though it was surrounded by many of the tallest, and grandest of the cities buildings nothing could balance out the undeniable fact that it did not belong. For it had never belonged, not in a city at least (though it had been there before both city and vine laid waste to its charm).

Still grinning like that young boy who brings his first dead frog to the waiting lap of his distracted mother, Lucas bounded into little house. Inside was pretty much exactly as the outside suggested, old and falling apart. The sparse furniture and tattered carpets where the type that one could only expect to see in such an unusual house; the previous owner had been, what one might call a hopeless antiques dealer and with his unusual departure the house had been left with the countless knick knacks that were never sold. Upon one of the more tacky of the many rejected couches that lined this particular room lounged a decidedly beautiful women.

Ceras Night, the haunting beauty of the Night family. She was one of the most sought after women in the city, at least in respects to the bachelor population that gravitated towards her cold figure whenever she moved about in public. But behind that hypnotizing face was a soul so black not even the crime lords dared cross the path of her influential organization, at least not openly. Miss Night was the real power of the underground world of thieves and killers within the confines of Bel-Thuran, and she was not the type to settle for anything less then complete control.

Slowly she glanced over her shoulder at the towering figure of Lucas, the steaming cup of tea carefully returned to the top of a little table pulled up beside the couch. “Well…” she hissed, her voice coming as a soft, but icy breeze, “what news from the pen of fools?” Her soft gaze grew rigid as she stared at the muscle man, she was definitely not the type who handled those little ‘oops’ moments all that well.

“I dun good Miss Night, I dun real good,” Lucas replied, almost bouncing from childlike glee at his recent success, “I finished my list just like you told me to, finished it real good.” The mood could almost be felt to lighten as the human mountain relayed this newest development, things were moving smoothly… and if there was one thing Miss Night did enjoy, it was a plan moving smoothly along its proper course.

“Then all that is left is your part, Zen” she purred, her frigid tone bathed in unsettling finality as she moved the focus of her icy stare to the couch at the far end of the room.

“Don’t worry Miss Night,” came his silky reply, “everything has been arranged that needs arranging. It is only a matter of time.” And as he spoke a soft grin spread across his clean shaven face and a low sigh escaped his mouth. Slowly he sank back into the deep cushions of the ancient sofa, his crystal wine glass held loosely in his right hand. Zen was the paragon of relaxed efficiency: silk where Lucas was the chain mail. He was hardly a match for the giant’s raw power but what the sly assassin lacked in brute strength he more than made up for with his sharp wit and deadly blades. A master of espionage Zen had earned himself the distinct mark of anonymity, having never once been a suspect in any of his numerous crimes. He was the perfect balance of mind and tact for Lucas’s brutish muscle. “The enforcers should arrive shortly,” he continued while contenting himself to brush a few specs of dirt from the worn black cloak that hung so loosely over his lithe features, “They will no doubt do anything for one of your standing and beauty.” As his soft voice trailed off he took a moment to sip but a bit more of the fine crimson liquid that filled the crystal glass, as he moved his many rings glistened in the warm glow of the lamps as they moved past.

It was not for nothing that Zen had obtained his position as the right hand of the mistress. His well used travelers cloak and the fine silk shirt with a slightly tatter collar blended so completely with the stately appearance of his pale skin and sinewy build. His honeyed words and flawless forgeries had gained him quite the reputation throughout the city as the most influential of the minor players upon the power stage. Paired with the muscular Lucas early on in his career, he soon took a liking to the hulking gorilla’s company and within the first few jobs their inseparable team had been formed. Zen as the calm and calculated mastermind, Lucas the towering wall that cast a long shadow of doubt unease upon all who found themselves in the darkness of his endless shadow. Even with such a promising path in life, it was only under the stark efficiency of Ceras Night that the two conmen realized their full potential.

“Very well,” she purred, as she slid her hand along the delicate folds of her blood red gown, “let us prepare a regal welcome for our guests.” A warm remark turned icy cold by the evil little grin that spread across her dainty red lips. Her thin fingers entwined themselves about the steaming mug of tea once more as her gaze fell back to the dark liquid that swirled within. Everything was going as she had planned so long ago… and now she would finally be able to see the fruits of so many years spent watching and waiting for just such a time. Gently she lifted the little mug to her lips as her dark amber eyes disappeared behind the soft lids and long lashes, and then with a short flick of her wrist she was left alone to her thoughts.

Zen and Lucas both knew better then to remain with the mistress in such a mood. And so even before the indifferent wave of her pale hand both men had already begun to rise and make their way to one of the adjacent rooms to prepare for the awaited arrival. “Miss Night…is pleased?” Lucas mumbled as he picked up two of the chairs that cluttered the room.

“Pleased, yes… I think she is,” replied Zen, dropping lazily in to one of the more tasteful recliners in the center of the room.

Outside things might have been disorganized during the hours right after the sudden return of the sound unto the sprawling city, but now they had progressed to a level completely devoid of order. The chant of what had grown into one of why. The looks of desperate need that had once been directed at the Enforcers and Scholars had turned into looks of anger and hate as the blame shifted from some unknown source to the weak link that had appeared so obviously before the simple questions of the general population. Before long the entire chain of command that had held the crowded city in order since its creation so many years ago would crumble away more completely then anything this city had ever seen.

It wasn’t long before the crime lords and petty crooks descended upon the chaotic herd of confused and bewildered people like vultures upon a fresh carcass. With each new theft the panic of the people grew and the anger at the seemingly powerless enforcers. And in the center of it all a young recruit ran from post to post carrying reports from each helpless position to the next.

Out of breath and exhausted as he was Sypher was determined to press on. It had been his dream to serve as an officer among the ranks of the Enforcers of Bel-Thuran… and now, even as a mere messenger boy, barely pulled from the sluggish ranks of the other recruits, he could feel himself growing closer to that dream. “Today… today I will prove myself…” he panted as he sprinted through one of the less crowded streets, “Today I will do something worth being remembered for.” It was a childish dream and a distant hope that kept him running to-and-fro with messages that contained far less information then the whispers of the town gossip. Then again it is often when the hope is at its most frivolous that such things as chance miracles find their way from that wonderful world of waking dreams to the far less wonderful one of reality. And on this day of so much chaos whatever great beings of omnipotent powers that governed the places and the peoples of that great city decided to set forth upon fate just one of those miracles.

For several days that little twist of fate had been left to wait for its place in the unfolding drama. To the sounds of hurried foot steps as they splashed through the little puddles that grew between the stones of that mud covered alleyway a little scrap of paper lay. Its smudged and faded scrawl left almost indistinguishable by its chaotic life within the less trodden parts of the city. The wind had sent it floating and turning upon the gentle breeze, and each warm breath expelled but a small token of the water that had come to call it home. Until that is a stronger gust came pushing through that little alley, its powerful breath sending the tattered scrap spiraling into the air, and as fate would have it into the face of the hurried boy. An insignificant thing for an insignificant boy, truly it was the type of irony only the truest of fates could inspire.

“Wha-… What is this?” Sypher murmured to himself as he clawed at this new obstruction to his view. His frantic motions overtaxed what limited coordination he had been graced with at birth and his feet soon found themselves wound tightly about each other. And as the poor child finally completed his first task of removing the paper he was greeted by a far closer view of the damp and muddy street then he most likely expected. “O…” was all he could manage to say before the remaining protests were lost to the splashing of water and the plopping sucking sound of mud absorbing an impact. And with a short moments pause punctuated only by one last squelching noise a confused “…Omph!” could be heard through what amounted to be a mask of mud and other grime. Slowly he picked himself up, wiping mud and other things far less readily identifiable from his face and arms. The uniform he wore had been filthy before and so concerned him far less then both the note and his own immediate well being.

“Filthy, filthy, filthy… They really ought to clean this place every once in a while.” Sypher muttered as he quickly inspected himself for minor cuts and bruises that would fester if left too long in the sludge. “Great!” he winced as his hand reached just such a cut. “It’s always the elbow or the arm isn’t it. And it never can be a little one.” With a distinct hesitation – the sight of blood had never been a joy of his – Sypher brought his fingers towards his face. Glancing only long enough to make out the distinct crimson of his own blood mixed in with the lingering traces of brown and brownish green before he let the hand fall back to his side. “It’ll be hell to pay tomorrow but I have to get this cleaned off.” He groaned and started off towards the little shack he called home.



An Abstract Thought -> RE: Dawning of an Age (5/18/2009 22:04:04)

Chapter 3: The List


Slowly the door creaked open, its well worn wood still held the traces of a mahogany finish that once made its off amber coloring shine with a luster that would have made it the very envy of the entire street. But that was years, even decades ago, long before the now shambled house fell into the more then grateful hands of Sypher. Now the splintered, and chipped remnants of the tired frame left little trace of the once glorious craftsmanship. And the faded and rusted handle creaked and whined with a metallic accent as the inner workings twisted into place to release the sad little lock that held the door together. As the young Enforcer slipped inside the little building a contented sigh passed through his lips.

“Home sweet home,” he murmured to himself as he passed through the dark and gloomy kitchen with little more than three good strides. His eyes searched idly about the place as he headed along his way. And as they lingered on the little stove, painted jet black by the layers of soot that covered its once silvery appearance, and the then tidy little counter with its accompanying chair, a small smile crept across his young face. The house was tiny, and it was more then rundown, but it was also a home all of his own. And that seemed to make the little cracks, the countless spider-webs, and the peeling paint just a bit more appealing than they actually were.

The kitchen cleared, Sypher made a quick right as he slipped through the little sitting room with its shelf of secondhand books and its chairs with featherless pillows, and entered into the washroom near the back of the house. A stark little room, adorned only by a stone basin, or maybe it was a small tub, and the iron pump that protruded from its side. Up a ways on the little wall facing the alley that ran along behind the house was a small little window carved into the slate and covered by thick iron bars. The little rays of light that filtered in from this opening cast dark shadows about the room and seemed only to make its already cramped environment more confined. Still, it was a functional design, and the very fact that it had water at all placed it well above the little farming houses on the outskirts of Bel-Thuran. Though notably, far below the more well off homes equipped with the latest in the spell driven plumbing system that was so famous within the city.

“Bel-Thuran, where the water runs as freely as the rum,” Sypher muttered as he set to work on the rusty, creaky old pump. His unhurt hand moved the rusted lever up and down in earnest as he set himself to the task of coaxing up water from the ancient contraption. “When it runs at all…” he added dryly as his efforts are rewarded by a thin trickle of murky liquid. And though his arm throbbed as the cut oozed some mixture of street grime and blood he allowed himself only the time for a grimacing sigh before throwing himself at the task once more in the hope that it would yield better results this second time around.

As the murky brown sludge slowly transformed to a clearer, freer flowing water a smirk of satisfaction slipped across Sypher’s features. He had triumphed over the demon plumbing, and it had only taken two frontal assaults upon the often insurmountable basin and pump. Today was a very good day. A very good day indeed. And with such contented thoughts gliding through his mind the young man slid out of his jacket and shirt. The slow ripple of muscles revealed that, despite his dismal lack of coordination, the boy was far from a pushover when it came to matters of strength.

As the tattered and discarded garments hit the cold stone floor the discolored elbow hit the icy water. “Ow…” He winced as the surrounding muscles contracted from the mild shock of the water. Before the initial pain had subsided, and with tightly clenched teeth, Sypher began to scrub at the grime and grit that lined both the inside and the outside of the cut. The last of his clean rags wrapped loosely about his hand, its whitish fabric growing first pink and then dark red as the blood was washed from the cut. His breath caught then as little tears began to form within the widening rims of his eyes. Still, as he clenched his teeth, fighting back the pain that threatened to overcome him, he dug his cloth-wrapped fingers just a bit deeper into the wound. The course fibers felt like little knives digging through the tender flesh, but it was pain that he would have to endure lest he risk leaving the wound to grow infected.

The pain pressed on, growing even, as Sypher dug all the more deeply within the long gash that ran in jagged spurts along his arm. And as his stomach began to turn and writhe with the pain his gaze drifted towards the low hanging stone of the ceiling and his eyes scrunched against the pain. “Only a little longer,” he murmured to himself in an attempt to control the rising desire to leave the wound in the state it was already in. The chant continued for several minutes longer, almost as if the scene was some archaic ritual of sorts and the call of endurance some magic spell, while the boy completed the painful task, at least to the best of his limited ability. Then, as the final strokes from the little, red rag were taken and the water from the little pump began to fade away, he let his attention drift around the room as his mind wandered to other things.

Still, it wasn’t until he had almost completed a haphazard attempt at a bandage about the injured arm that his gaze, and shortly after, his thoughts found their way to the weather-worn paper that had been the cause of his misfortune. “This is all your fault, attacking an Enforcer is a serious crime,” he muttered with more sarcasm then anything else. His bloodied fingers slid from the beige gauze he had been using to wrap the wound and found their way towards the object of his current torment. The sharp breaths of pain were replaced by a sudden silence as his eyes began to decipher the faded scratches of handwriting from the otherwise blank backdrop.

Little red smears intermingled with the faded lines of gray as pale blue eyes flicked this way and that across the paper. “Āiden… Faye… Kayne…” he half thought and half murmured, his gaze fixated upon the almost illegible scratches that remained on the paper, “… all followed by some strange mark in the shape of an eye.” Once more Sypher was forced to pause as he brought the list just a bit closer to his face. Beneath the first three the vague traces of other names coupled with what appeared to be the same symbol could just be seen, but despite his best efforts the hastily written letters had not stood against the wrath of the weather and the grim of the streets. Still lower his gaze fell as he struggled over each new line in the futile attempt to read the weathered scrawl. Beneath the names that seemed to be connected with the symbol of an eye were others connected with symbols ranging from a thin dagger wrapped within a boarder of vines to an open book seemingly set on fire. None clear enough to piece together from the few obscure letters still visible behind both the coating of faded blotches and grime smeared about the paper.

But then, as his gaze fell to the bottom of the tattered paper and his eyes passed over the letters outlined in the red smears left by his bloodied fingers, his heart froze within his chest and his voice disappeared into his throat. Five simple names stared back at him, all written with the same rough script as the others, and yet this group was far from the same, at least to Sypher. For there, beneath the names of Blackwell and Otieno and above those of Jaq and Leigh, was his own. And beside each of them the mark of a scythe. The names were not the only ones that appeared with that ominous symbol beside them, but each, as with the names that preceded them, had been long since lost to the trails of time that had served to fade and smear the lines of ink.

The paper fluttered to the ground as the crimson stained hand fell open. “S-sypher…” the boy sputtered his voice both faint and distant within his terror. What was this list that held his name? What was its purpose? And above all what was the connection between them all and the little symbols? His mind ran through the paces of thought as his hand and gaze fell towards the floor where the list had fallen. The motions, just like the thoughts, came slowly, haltingly, as if his very being fought against them as if in doing so the reality would vanish once more. And yet, even as his body shook with effort and his mind reeled with its own inner turmoil, the motion and the thought continued. The list was something he could not control, something he did not understand, and yet it was something that he could not help but feel connected to in some twisted way beyond the few letters of his name etched hastily across it. For better or for worse he had seen his name there between both Jaq and Otieno and he had seen just as plainly the universal symbol of death etched upon the scrap beside them all.

The frigid chill of terror rolled across the young boy as he struggled within himself to find some way out of the twisted nightmare that seemed to spring forth from the shadows. “No… no… no…” he murmured helplessly to himself, his head shaking this way and that as he stooped to reclaim the paper once more. “There must be some other meaning, some other reason for such a symbol to be placed beside so many names…” the words seemed like a fading hope with but a small, flickering light left to mark its very existence. Still it was a hope that Sypher’s desperate mind fixed upon as his eyes searched frantically for the connecting thread that would free him from the fate he saw so clearly etched upon his own future just as it was etched so clearly upon the paper list.

“Death…? The symbol of death… How can it connect so many different people.” he mumbled as his hand traced down the list until it came once more to rest upon the four names he could clearly distinguish. “Blackwell… Otieno… Jaq… Leigh… Who are they?” And as the words slipped from languid brain to sputtering lips the cogs clicked into place. “That’s it!”

He nearly tripped over himself as he scrambled to his feet, knocking off the haphazardly wrapped bandage that covered his arm as he raced out of the little washroom. But he didn’t notice, couldn’t notice such trivial things when something so much larger then the minor aches and pains loomed up before him. The list meant something, the symbols connected each person by some common thread… and the names would lead him to the answer.

“Where is it?” he mumbled to himself as he slide into the miniature reading room, nearly tripping as he brought himself to a sudden stop before the little book shelf. His hand slide along the well-worn spines as his eyes flicked from faded lettering to faded lettering. Then with a desperate smile his hand clasped about one of the larger tomes that graced the bottom shelf of the rack. The ornate gold lettering on the side spelled out The People and the Places of Bel-Thuran. It was a book compiled for the ease of the enforcers, a text that told the general history of all the residents of the city and within its tired pages Sypher hoped to find the common theme that would consign so many to such a fate.

“Banthorne… Belren… Black…” he mused as his fingers flipped through the pages with hurried anticipation. His eyes reading several names ahead of his trailing finger as his mind raced with doubts. It was possible that this ancient copy no longer contained the information that he would need, that its dated lists and useless facts would only confuse him further. And yet he had to try, had to know, even if it meant that he had to accept the fate emblazoned upon the list. “Black… well…” he breathed, still unsure of what to expect. But as his eyes slid down through the following text the breath of anticipation turned into one of unhappy remorse. Blackwell was listed… but the family was a powerful one in the city and had bought its way out of the census listings with bribes. The pages contained only the most basic of facts about the origins of the name and the entitlement of the rank that accompanied it. The rest was gone, lost to the power of gold and silver.

Disheartened, and all the more frantic Sypher began to dig through the pages looking for the next from the terrifying list. Blackwell had not been listed, but maybe he could discover the common ground without that particular name, maybe this next one would prove that it had to be a sick joke of some sort. And yet, as he neared the page that would hold the answer to that pleading question his heart began to sink once more. With each turn he drew closer and closer to the missing page, the page that had been torn away from the copy when it was still being used by the enforcers, the page that contained the name Otieno and the information that would lead him to a better understanding of the twisted turn of events, the page that was missing.

Tears began to form as the boy sank into the floor. The little trails of water rolled down each ashen cheek as the boy pounded his fists against the ground. Where once a spark of hope had grown from the promise of knowledge a sad emptiness now grew. A dispirited hand limped towards the fallen shred of paper as watery eyes focused on the remaining names. “Jaq… Leigh…” he read before letting the paper fall back towards the ground. Then, with painful apathy, he pushed the pages over towards the J’s in the all but nonexistent hope that the name was not just the nickname of some street urchin and he knew it must be. Not that it really mattered anymore; the chance of finding the names when the first two had borne so little fruit was a distant dream that was only confirmed by the void within the text where Jaq would have been.

Three lost causes, two failed attempts at learning of the true meaning of the list. Three of four had turned from the enticing whispers of answers to disquieting dead ends and now all that was left was Leigh. Sypher slowly turned through the pages, passing through the rest of the J’s and all of the K’s until he reached the beginning of the names that started with L. Here, however, he was forced once more to pause, his racing heart and tattered sense of hope simply could not take another strenuous failure, not without some mental preparation at the very least. Slowly he took each breath, holding it as he let his mind and his thoughts calm down into nothingness, until at last he released it as slowly as it had been taken. Once, twice, three, even four times he repeated this process until at last he reached a point of less panicked calm that he hoped would be enough to carry him through whatever waited on the next few pages.

Still each turn, each painful glance across the names listed upon each tattered leaf of paper, all seemed like an eternity of suffering and an eternity of continued hope until at last it reached the single name so anxiously anticipated. There, laid out before him in large letters, was the one name that could renew his desire to live, and to survive, Leigh. His breath caught and his heart raced even faster as he leaned in closer to read the few lines of text that followed what appeared to be the name of a small family, probably farmers on the edge of the city from the lack of information. Indeed the household owned a small farm of no more then a few acres on the very edge of the great city. And then, below the simple description of both history and financial means an address was listed, and the location of the first part of what Sypher feared was beginning to grow to into a rather long journey was determined.



An Abstract Thought -> RE: Dawning of an Age (5/18/2009 22:05:57)

Chapter 4: The Ghost Talker


The cool breeze drifted through the quickly emptying streets, its soft touch guiding the little bits of paper and other refuse along the winding bends in the thin roads. On all sides the men and women went about the last moments of business before once more returning to the safety of their homes. Doors creaked closed, windows slide shut, and lights faded out as the sounds of closing locks filled the city with a strange symphony of noise. And as the last flickering lights that filled a few remaining windows were clicked off the second life of the city began to surface. The homeless dregs of society, wandering this way and that by night, soon slide out upon the empty streets to claim what little they could from the forgotten activities of the day. Slowly, after the sun had completely descended over the distant horizon, the city was turned over to the will of the darker side of life and the scavengers and undesirables laid claim to their own little corners of the darkened world.

Years ago things were different, years ago the bustling city was far smaller and far less full of hurrying people scurrying this way and that. Isn’t it funny how much changes in just a few years, how quickly the world spirals into a routine of locks and bolts as the fear of the dark creeps up in all corners of society. Years ago no door would have been locked, no window slide closed as the sun descended. The streets would not have emptied of the better kind of people to make room for a lesser breed, for years ago there was only one kind of people the kind that lived at peace. And yet, as the city grew so too did the fear, and as the world spiraled onwards towards some inevitable end the presence of locks grew more and more common.

The world had changed, and with it the understanding of society. From the age of simplicity had come an age of confusion and control. And from the peaceful life of a little city had been born the works of a bustling hub of trade and culture, attracting to its very being all sorts of people, from the ones that collected for charity to the ones that stole from the collection pots and all those in between. From the world of peace had been born a world of vengeance, and as neighbors wronged neighbors who wronged neighbors the endless cycle of hatred began. For many, like Dante, the change had neither been asked for nor been desired. No, for them the change was a black smear that grew to cover all aspects of their shattered lives. For them it was a vengeance bred from vengeance, it was a hallow feeling of hate that did not fit within their most basic being. And still it surfaced, guided into being by the actions of others, the actions driven by the same feeling being driven by yet the same feeling. It was an endless cycle with no beginning and no end, and it had neither right nor wrong.

It was a world so much light the twilight, standing between the world of the light and world of the dark. And each being who was forced to call it home wandered through the ether just as Dante wandered through the dark mist of the cold night air. His perception drifted up and down each alley as he flitted from shadow to shadow. It was dangerous working out at night, dangerous because the only other beings who would dare wander the streets during the darkest hours of the day all had a single thing in common, their willingness to do anything merely to survive. Dante knew such things, knew them more than most, as he found his way towards what sounded like a confrontation up ahead. His wary eyes, though unseeing, jumping towards each approaching sound as he slipped behind the shadow of an overhanging storefront. The darkness cloaking his being in a deep shadow that seemed to merely be an extension of his already shadowy cloak. Its embrace just the same as the covering of air that guided his perception of all things.

From his perch he ‘watched’ as a young girl, or maybe it was a young boy, struggle to protect what appeared to be a finely crafted hilt from the hands of a rather aggressive band of thieves. His sightless gaze followed the exchange as he fingered the ornate hilt of his own blade and waited for his chance to make a move upon the group. For what he could tell the girl, she did seem to be a girl, was a craftswoman, most likely a blacksmith, and the small band of three men had taken an interest in one of her works. Now she stood just outside the doorway of a little shop, most likely her own, with a sizeable mallet in hand, laying upon each soul unfortunate enough to get within reach with a vengeance that seemed so out of place with her petite frame. But it was hopeless, the thieves were street tested veterans of the art of parting others from their valuables, and as two of the goons kept the young child occupied with taunts and lunges the other slipped in behind her.

Helplessly Dante watched as the man selected a second mallet from within the shop and turned to face the oblivious girl. His eyes widened as he watched the hammer lifted into the air above both shaded heads, and then he quickly ducked behind a barrel in a desperate attempt to break off his connection. He had no intention of watching what would inevitably come next, but he was helpless to stop it if he wanted to be able to profit from enterprise. Still, he could not help but wince as the muted sound of the hammer meeting unprotected flesh reached his covered ears. And as he peaked his head back out over the top of the little barrel a bitter tear moistened the blindfold that wrapped around his face. Before him the scene had changed from a desperate struggle for survival to a pathetic robbery, as the thieves rummaged through both the shop and the small sac that had hung at the girls side. The taste of iron soon laced about his tongue as he bit his lip to keep from making any noise in protest, what was happening now as a way of life, it was his way of life. Regardless of how it seemed it was survival of the fittest, survival of the most able.

“They needed the money, they needed it for survival.” He murmured to himself in an attempt to justify his inaction. But he knew how pointless the argument was, how weak his defense would be, the simple fact was he had watched as someone more than innocent had fallen victim to a crime. It didn’t matter that he may have been a part of that group had things turned out differently in his life, or even that he might have replaced the girl had things gone far smoother, all that mattered was that the being he had become was a being that could sit and let such a thing happen. And that very fact sickened him more than any other indication of his fall from the light.

“No, no, no…” he sputtered as he shook away the hesitation and the self-doubt, “I can not afford to get cold feet now, not when my very survival depends upon these very situations.” And with a low sigh he lifted himself back out from behind the barrel and surveyed the scene before him once more. The thieves, having finished their haphazard search, were gathering together what few valuables they had found and beginning to set out upon their way. All the while the girls prone form lay face down in the street, a small trail of liquid flowing freely from the wound on the top of her head. He stifled one last grimace as he slide the thin dagger from its sheath within his cloak, slid the blindfold into his pocket, and looked once more to be sure that the group of would be thieves had remained as unarmed as when they began to rod the little shop. Once he was completely satisfied that the mallet had been left behind the fallen blacksmith and that the items retrieved from within the store had merely been the incomplete parts of many different weapons he slide from the shadows. All about him the wind began to move, changing directions as he forced the currents this way and that, hoping desperately that the small band had at least heard the rumors of the Ghost Talker.

Before him the small group began to hesitate, their forward progress grew more rapid as they glanced fearful over their shoulders towards the new arrival. With one last glance at the now groaning form of the girl he set off at a sprint in the direction of the unlucky trio. His determination only increased by the fresh memory of the small pool of blood forming around the blacksmiths head. Each step, each long and flowing stride, carried him closer and closer to the stumbling and whimpering group. By now the wind was almost howling as it pressed against the runners, hampering their forward progress and halting their escape from the ever nearing Ghost Talker. With swift and practiced motions the glint of metal could be seem lancing through the air as the thin leather straps that held together the little sac that was slung over the leaders scrawny shoulders was cut cleanly apart. A soft thud resonated the air as the man tumbled forward under the pressure of a well placed kick to his back.

“Now now now.. what have we here.” Dante muttered, his voice barely more then a quiet growl, “three whimpering cowards.” His gaze, an icy stare from those strange, ghostly white eyes sent shivers through even the toughest of the small ground as the pale orbs drifted from one of the two remaining men to the other. Then, without even bothering to stoop towards the ground, he lifted the sliced leather strap up through the air and into his hand. The terrified thieves could only watch in awed horror as the leather band danced through the air unaided and into the hand of the strange man with the dagger. Then with a frightened whimper they turned and ran, leaving their fallen comrade to crawl away alone and forgotten. And as the men disappeared into the distant night he let his focus return to the motion at the store entrance. His tired gaze and strained mind were making the distant image little more than a blur within the dark confines of his mind, but through the fog of distance and the distortion of the still settling wind he could just make out the rising figure of the dazed iron monger.

His hand closed about the leather strap as he turned to face the little shop, his mind raged against itself as he struggled with the choice to leave with his spoils and forget the unfortunate girl who took a hammer blow so that he could obtain them, and the idealistic idea to return to the unfortunate smith the bag in the hope that she would offer him something for the service. His mind raced over the implications of each option, and his moral fiber reeled against his survivalist instinct as he fought with both sides of himself. But in the end the choice was far from a choice at all. His entire life had fallen apart, and his very existence changed into something so completely different from what he was, in the end all he really had left was his tattered honor and his name. He could not bring himself to turn his back upon such a twist of fate without knowingly taken another step towards the darkness that loomed all around him. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved towards the shop and the dazed girl. The crackle of the small stones as his feet pressed down against them alerted the young blacksmith to his nearing presence, and he winced inwardly as she scrambled for the hammer that lay at her side. It hurt that some, regardless of how justified, would link him with people like that.

“Are you ok?” he shouted as he approached the girl. His mind was still writhing with the blow of the recent moral struggle and he really wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of suffering another serious blow to the head any time soon. Forward he stepped, making sure to keep his hands out as his sides, the bag slightly outstretched before him as a sort of peace offering. From what he could tell, now that proximity offered him a more precise picture of the unfolding scene, the girl, probably around 15 or 16 based on her height, was hurt, but not severely so, and more than capable to looking after herself for the rest of the night. “Here’s your stuff,” he continued as he stepped closer still to her trembling form. The bag extended loosely in his outstretched hand.

“Leave me alone” she shouted as she swung the hammer about herself, less focused on the words, or even the body language that this stranger seemed to show. But as the hammer made contact with the man’s thin frame she began to notice her surroundings a bit more completely. Her gaze falling first to the outstretched bag bulging with trinkets that had only recently been in her store then to the man himself, and her face fell apologetically. His concerned smile mixed now with a hurt look and his open stance arms held unthreateningly by his sides showed him to be far different from the man that she had thought him to be.

“I am so sorry” she whispered, having lost her voice to her dismayed shock. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Almost instantly she realized the stupidity of the question, her pale cheeks turning a rosy pink as he dropped the hammer and moved to accept the little bag. All the while he stood their, slightly dazed by the near instant turnabout that her reaction had taken. Never before had anything so drastic ever undergone such a complete change so quickly, it was as if she had suddenly become a completely new person. And now she was making the conversation far more difficult then it really needed to be, he needed to keep moving or he’d never get the money he needed to survive.

“Don’t worry about it… really” he muttered grumpily as he brushed past her on his way towards a particularly dark side alley up ahead. As he went he quietly shifted the still unsheathed dagger back into its concealed holder and, without leaving himself the time too look back at the little shop or the strange girl, he increased his pace and disappeared back into the shadows. From behind he could here the quiet calls of protest from the girl. But her mingled calls of “wait” and “come back” fell upon deaf ears for he had already vanished through the maze of alleyways that crisscrossed the city. His footsteps made all the more hurried by the moist blotches that appeared upon his tattered blindfold and the little leather purse that weighed down both his hand and his conscience.

“I had to do it…” he told himself as he slide the little pouch into the deep folds of his cloak. “I had to… to survive.” Still his mind struggled to accept the reality that he had stolen that girls coin purse as he brushed past her, he had to accept that he had done something nice only to overshadow it with an equally vile act.

“She hit me, this is merely reparations.” He whimpered, trying to rally a faltering defense as he cowered beneath the accusations of theft and dishonor that his mind and moral conscience flung at his being. What he had done was something he had not ever done before. Sure he had stolen, even killed others to survive, but he had never wronged someone who had not first deserved the action and its consequences. And now, without a moments hesitation during the act itself, he had relieved a young blacksmith of the money that she had rightfully earned. Still life was not easy, nor survival cut and dry by any stretch of the imagination. For many, Dante included, the day to day was not merely a predetermined fact, and for most it relied upon ones ability to separate the morality of each action from the choice to live.

“It’s so damn easy to have ideals when food is just an arms reach away” he growled to himself as he pressed the issue to the back of his mind. He did not have the privilege of debating his morals when his survival hung in the balance, and so with only a short, remorseful look back down the long alleyway he hung a right and headed towards a tavern he had visited a few times in the past for some food and a bed for the night. The little coin purse felt heavy in his hand, and the weight tugged upon his soul as he put more and more distance between himself and the little shop.

The streets were empty now, devoid of even the nearly constant presence of those who walk within the shadows. High above the stars glistered and danced about within the sky, their light no longer obscured by the flickering rays that slide through closed shutters. All about the noise of the day subsided as the urchins, and the rouges, turned towards the taverns spread around the city for a shelter from the cold and the dark that now spread about all things. Everywhere men and women ducked through doors and gathered about warm fires as they let the outside vanish from their concern. For each and every one of them the life that they accepted by day had come to a close, replaced now by a new life that they expected to come with the night.

All about the contented silence of a well fed beast descended upon the people of the city. Even the dogs and the cats seemed to take a moment to simply rest, their incessant work finished, at least for a little while. All was still upon the emptied streets, save for the lone shadow of Dante as he slipped past the sleeping homes with but the soft fall of feet to announce his very existence. Up ahead the muted laughter of a little tavern greeted his expectant ears, and the inviting glow of the light that spilled forth from its still opened windows warmed his cheeks. A small smile spread across his face as he thought of the food and drink that he would soon receive, but the momentary joy was fleeting at best, vanishing soon after as his thoughts turned towards the source of the money, and then to the young girl herself.

If you feel so bad about it take get her something later own as payment, he thought to himself as he pressed open the wooden door. His ears almost dancing as they took in the friendly creaking that issued forth from the well used hinges. His first step fell slowly as he waited for his senses to adjust to the sudden change in air movement within the little building. But as the image of a little room adorned with small circular tables and little changes came into focus he moved forward to the bar with more confident steps. Scattered about the little room the half-dozen or so patrons glanced up from their mugs of ail and steaming plates of mashed potatoes and meat to look the new comer over. A few eyes lingered as they took in the skinny elf with the blindfold, but most, having seen the man here and there around the city merely returned to their food and conversations. And it was not long before the customary drone of side conversations returned to the little bar. For his part, Dante slid into a vacant stool to the far side of the little wooden counter. His hand retrieved a few silver coins from the little purse as he singled for the barkeep to take his order.

“Wha’ can I do ya fer” the mountain of a man asked as he set down the mug that he just happened to be drying.
“Just some food and board, Clay” Dante mumbled as he passed the man the money, hoping that he had remembered the name that went with the voice. “And some mead if you have any of the stuff I like left.”
“Oh, money today… don’t think I haven’t forgotten that ya owe me fer two nights in here just because ya disappear fer a while.” Came the gravely response as the man turned towards the back wall, fresh mug in hand. “The honey mead, from a little south a’ here, and the usual steak and potatoes for supper.” He continued, turning slowly to place the overflowing pint before the blind elf, only to turn back towards a little door beside the tankards of ale to shout back for another platter from the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah… its all there, money for tanight and the two from afore.” Dante replied as he slipped his hands about the mug, pausing long enough to take a long sniff of the intoxicating smell that wafted from the cup before bringing it to his lips for a long, contented swig. “Nothin’ better than a good honey mead.” He sighed as he set the mug upon the counter and accepted the plate that was offered to him.

Towards his back Dante could pick up tidbits of conversations. Mostly just rumors about the city, the leading families, or more personal acquaintances but every now and again there where snatches of things far more consequential. A bit about Ivan Hultz and a place called the Arpin Tavern here, and a snatch about the recent arrival of a viable heir to the long empty thrown there. Still the information that could be gleamed from even the most insignificant of each conversation could easily mean survival for another week, or a swift death before the sun even rose, such was the nature of the city, at least for such people as Dante. And so, without much hesitation he spun himself about on the bar stool, and leaned back against the counter to better pay attention to the gossip of the rest of the room. His Elven ears perking up as he endeavored to decipher the useful facts from the needles drivel.

Slowly he to another sip from his mug, letting the amber liquid roll easily down his parched throat, the sweet taste putting to ease he tired mind as he began to let his body relax. As he drank he let his focus settle upon the news about this new heir, the very mention of such an occurrence sparking a deep-set interest within his being. For years the city of Bel-Thuran had been without ruler, the thrown vacant for generations as the royal family waited for an heir with the gift. And often Dante had wondered about the strange tradition, started at the very founding of the great city so many years ago, that called for the ruler, the heir apparent, of the entire city be gifted with a bit of the innate magic that has, for so long, confounded even the most skilled of scholars. Why would such a vast city, so central within the world at large, tie itself to a tradition that would leave it with our king or even queen for generations. And as he shock such trivial thoughts from his mind to once more narrow in upon the conversation itself he was forced to remember that he was but a boy when last a king had sat on the thrown.

“A new ruler could indeed change everything…” he mused to himself as he brought the mug back up to his mouth. From what he had heard thus far in the conversation a young noble, of questionable origins, was laying claim to the thrown. He claimed himself to be a distant relative of the last king, second or third cousin or something similar, and pointed to a long line of names Dante really didn’t care all that much about on his mothers side as proof that he truly was an heir. Then the conversation had turned to speculation about the noble brats gift; the bigger of the two men insisted that he heard that the boy could hear the words of cats, while the other man, the scrawny one, argued that such a pointless power couldn’t possibly exist, Dante was more than inclined to agree with this assessment, and instead claimed that he had heard it from a friend who had it on good authority that the boy could turn himself a pale green color on command.

Holding back laughter as he struggled to understand how such things could pass as a magical gift even to some desperate brat of nobility. How he longed for a king like the ones so often spoken of in tales of olden times, kings with mighty powers like the control of the elements or the omniscience of the mind. How he longed for the great men who rose from the powerful line of kings who sat upon the thrown for countless generations without a break in the line, men bordering upon the God like in their command over the quirks of the magical. And with one last disinterested sip he turned his attention towards another of the tables, leaving the two men to argue over which was indeed the more inane power.

From over his left shoulder he could hear the gravelly rumble of Clays almost inaudible voice reminding him that he had forgotten the meal he had had some nights ago. “Yeah, yeah…” he muttered in return trying to shoo the man way. However, when he heard the sound of quiet tapping he slid his hand into his pocket once more, and with a low groan he pulled another coin from the rapidly emptying purse. “You’re gonna bleed me dry at this rate.” He growled as he slid the money over the counter and took another bit of meat. As he chewed the overly salted steak he began to catch snippets of the other conversation that had first drawn his interest. And without much regard for any other quiet reminders that the tavern owner may have been trying to give him he once more let his attention fixate upon the table that drew his interest.

The talk of the latest moves undertaken by the cities underworld did not summon memories of nostalgic times when things were better. No, Dante knew better than to assume that there had ever been a time when such shadowed organizations had not existed, merely accept that there had been a time, not so very long ago, when that fact of existence would not have affected him one way or another. But now, with his lively hood based upon the very whim of crime bosses like Hultz and Reign, he was forced to take a special interest in what little news he could uncover about their inner workings, and unfolding plans. And as he listened to talk of a new center of crime growing around the unclaimed territories of the Arpin Tavern he was reminded that this expansion of organized crime would cut heavily into his nightly stomping grounds.

But as he grew absorbed within the more personal impact of the news he was jolted back to the conversation itself by the mention of a name he did not often hear talk of. Supposedly the Ghost Talker had caught wind of the planned expansion, and was taking steps to scare the city, and the crime lords into leaving his turf alone. And as if this new revelation did not come as a big enough surprise to the elf the conversation turned towards an even more startling implication. Supposedly the Ghost Talker had stepped up his tactics earlier in the day when he blanketed the entire city in a stifling silence. For some reason word that spread that he, Dante, had caused the silence that had shaken the city to its very core in but a matter of seconds. And if the rumor was wide spread enough to reach the little table conversations in run down little taverns about the city it was only a matter of time before the enforcers caught wind of it and came looking for him.



An Abstract Thought -> RE: Dawning of an Age (5/18/2009 22:07:20)

Chapter 5: The Game Begins



“Damn it, Damn it…” he muttered beneath his breath as he took another long swig of mead. His hands wrapped about the mug, squeezing until his knuckles turned white from the pressure and the glass whined beneath the strain. He couldn’t help but wonder, with dumbfounded awe, at the sheer scope of the accusations that where slowly being leveled against him. And though it did not sound as those the two who spoke of the most recent gossip found anything wrong with the actions they laid upon the Ghost Talker, Dante knew that the ones in charge, the ones to whom he would be made to answer, would not take such accusations, true or not, so lightly.

His fingers were still shaking as he turned his back towards the room and cut another piece of meat from his steak. “Damn it, who would start such a tale… who…” he mumbled to himself as he shook his head from side to side as if merely rejecting the news would make it return from whence it came without so much as a trace. His tired mind, already weary from the events of just that night, could not take such strain. Then from out of the fog of his desperate contemplation he was jolted by the heavy footsteps of Clay moving towards him on the other side of the counter.

“Ya look ill… Look like ya got hit by somethin’ comin’ out a’ the dark.” the bear of a man observed, his voice taking on a knowing air as he filled up another mug with the honey mead. His gravely voice seemed to resonate tranquility.

“Just some gossip,” Dante replied, sliding his plate to the side to make room for the larger man to lean against the other side of the countertop. Then, after a few moments hesitation he added that the talk of the Ghost Talker and the silence of earlier had begun to turn his appetite. All the while desperately hoping that Clay would take the bait and offer his two cents upon the subject that had caused a paying customer such discomfort, after all it was bad for business to have patrons with ill humors.

“Ah, that nonsense, not much sense is frettin over talk like that. Though if you want to know what the talk is, not just little snippets of it ‘ere and there…” Clay began, settling himself into a comfortable position against the creaking bar top, and pausing only to catch a short nod from his patron telling him to continue. “They say that the crime lords ‘ave been eyein’ up some territory around ‘ere, lookin’ to expand their influence more or less. Not that any a’ that is very unusual, just that they ain’t playin’ by the rules no more, gettin’ bolder an’ eyein’ up some a the places that the Ghost Talker goes to. Most folks been sayin’ a somethin’ is gonna happen, what with such big names fightin’ over turf an’ all. Then the quiet comes, just up outa nowheres an’ throws the city inta a right panic. Anyways, ta make a long story short, the word goin’ about the streets now is that the Ghost Talker has drawn his line in the sand an’ that there might be war if the crime lords press the issue any further.”

Dante leaned back as he absorbed the flood of new information. He was quickly beginning to piece together the basic implications that such a perceived declaration of war might have with some of the stronger shadow organizations. People like Hultz and his crew of murderous thieves would move without hesitation to confront the man responsible for the challenge, but others would likely jump onto the offensive without a thought for the loses that such a war might bring. If things were to be kept at the status quo he would have to make a move, and soon. Still he did not have enough information, like the opinions of the people, and the kind of support his ‘declaration’ of war had generated among the different classes of life. And so, as he set the mug back down upon the polished counter and returned to his food, he took a moment to ask Clay just that.

“Whadda the people think a’ it all?” The man repeated, as he processed the question before beginning his answer. “Well I guess its been mixed around ‘ere. The ordinary folk ‘ave always been afraid of that ghost talkin’ thing an’ most a’ them are more than happy fer a change in control. Still there are more than a few that rather prefer someone like the Talker, they say he ain’t nearly as bad as all the rumors and stories make ‘im out ta be. An’ the thieves are happy with the limited attention the Talker seems to give, the streets are freer for them then they would ever be under the rule of organized crime, but the nobles that pass through would much prefer a group that can be paid off. So its split pretty even overall… Me, well I’m happy with the way thin’s are now. No use in hanging’ what ain’t already broke. An’ if the Ghost Talker is willin’ ta fight then there really ain’t no point in pressin’ the issue specially if the stories are true.”

“I guess that sounds ‘bout right…” Dante sighed, more to himself than in response to Clay. His thoughts, though far from settled, were beginning to align themselves with logical reason. And as he balanced the scales between the pros and the cons that would face the Crime Lords should they accept the challenge that he was being blamed with offering he began to breath easier. “They’ll have a meetin’, the big names like Hultz and Reign aren’t stupid enough to run blindly into this. They’ll try to make an arrangement.” He murmured, only to be rewarded for his opinion by a sagely nod from Clay.

“It’s the littler ones that you gotta watch for….” But the sentence never found its ending. Instead the thought was interrupted by the sudden clamor from behind as the quiet conversations that had permeated from the little round tables and the patrons hurried into the shadows and out onto the streets. And as Dante turned his head slowly his uneasy feeling found its justification. Before him the tavern stood empty save for two imposing figures moving purposefully from the door towards the bar. His heart nearly stopped as he placed a name with the all to familiar profile of Ivan Hultz.

“I think I’ll take one a the back tables Clay…” he murmured calmly as he gathered up his plate and mug. But before he could get up from his stole and duck around the two men he felt the uncomfortable weight of a powerful hand upon his shoulder. Slowly, yet without sign of the same fear that had sent Clay, the veritable man mountain, scurrying to the back of his store, two mugs in hand. Still, even through the icy calm that had descended upon his being Dante could feel the chill role down his spine as he connected the voice to the only man who could really make him feel uneasy, Zen.

“Don’t runaway so quickly,” came the silky hiss of the snake of the underworld. And with a strength that was so contrasting to the prim nature of the man’s dapper garb, the lithe arm that had held Dante to his chair spun him about to face the new arrivals. “You see, we came all this way, to this pathetic cesspool to talk with you. But I would guess you already knew that.”

“Expected yes, but I did not expect to see you, Zen, and I did not expect to see anyone so soon.” Dante returned, his voice adopting the same soft, unassuming tone that dripped from Zen’s own words. His senses buzzed at a frantic pace as he took in the situation, noting escape routes, minor inconsistencies with dress that could indicate concealed weaponry, and the basic body language of the two men. As expected the calm and collected figure of Zen offered nothing in the way of information upon either his own emotions or his underlying intent. But the far less collected Ivan betrayed that he was as flustered by this sudden flurry of motion as Dante was, and more than likely it was Zen, not he, who was pulling the string for the moment.

Still a man such as Ivan Hultz, so prominent within the hierarchy of the underworld was not a man so easily affected by the hurried pace of events. And though he was more than a little out of his usual comfort zone he was more than ready to play his part. “We are not blind to the movements of the city, nor are we so cowardly to let you make such a brass declaration without making moves of our own.” He growled, hoping that he had pieced together the little bits of information that Zen had dropped for him on their way towards the Tavern. As he spoke he puffed his already massive frame up even more as he tried to assume he customary role as intimidator, a very hard task within such company.

Zen leaned back, his body language as unreadable as ever, but the small smirk that seemed to spread across his face betrayed his disdain for the other man he had come with. Dante, for his part, merely shook his had and turned his attention back towards the man he was now sure had arranged the little meeting. “Why don’t you cut to the chase,” he murmured as he rotated his entire body just enough to cut Ivan from the conversation completely. “We both know you know that I had nothing to do with this… so cut the small talk and tell me why you’re here.” His voice dripped with what he could only hope was indifferent impatience at the whole affair. It was a gamble, a risky one at that, that he was taking now. And everything rode on how badly Zen wanted whatever it was that he was after, cause if he didn’t need it badly he could very easily play dumb and leave Dante in a very shaky situation.

“Sure, sure,” Zen yawned, “anything to be out of this dump just a bit faster.” As he spoke he let himself fall farther back into a reclining position upon the counter top, taking great pains to knock both of the recently arrived mugs of ale to the ground, smiling smugly as the room was filled, if only for a moment, with the sound of shattering glass. “You see we have a common interest, you and I. You want to stifle this nasty little rumor before things get out of hand, and I, well I want something similar enough. You see I, like you, do not want the chaos that such a war within the underworld would cause. I do not need the confusion of such a volatile situation distracting me from my work with the nobility, and more importantly the treasures of the nobility. And so just as you want the rumors silenced, so to do I want to see them put to an end.”

Here he paused long enough to widen the focus of this gaze to include Ivan as well as Dante. The disgruntled crime lord looked about ready to kill someone, but was controlling himself as best he could because he saw the logic in the plan that was beginning to unfold. A sinister smile already beginning to spread across his pudgy features as it began to dawn on him the position that this current knowledge would afford him should this scholar make a scene, and the money it would save him should things work out as they were supposed to. And as the thoughts formed, albeit slowly, within his mind his grubby, jewel covered hands began to rub together in a twisted, childlike glee.

“That, however, is where you come in.” Zen continued, indicating the euphoric crime lord with a lazy roll of his wrist. “You see I only know the mans name, you, however, should know where to find him. And you,” here he turned just a bit to direct his gaze at Dante once more, “are the best choice for the hit. The people expect such things from the Ghost Talker, and the enforcers won’t look for trails behind the choice of targets if they think it was the mysterious man of shadows. After all, what real reason does the strange ghost man need besides the instructions of the dead.” As he finished his eyes scanned over the expressions that adorned the other two men’s faces, and a satisfied smile flashed across his smooth features.

“Yeah, yeah… that is great, but who do you want me to kill.” Dante sighed, already having grown uneasy about the prospect of killing off a prominent scholar, even if the man was responsible for such nonsense. “We need the name before we can do anything…”

“A name. Yes you will need the name, how silly of me to overlook that.” Zen replied, his voice more giving away his growing boredom with the entire affair. “Jericho… he’s from the council I think.”

“Jericho..!” Ivan piped in, his voice more than a little startled by the sudden revelation. “You mean the Jericho that all but holds sway over the will of the entire council!?” His face paled as he waited hesitantly for an indication for Zen to deny this outrageous misunderstanding and to correct what he could only hope was a grievous error. But when he was only greeted by a curt, disinterested nod from the tall con-artist he swallowed hard and continued. “Yes, I know where you would find him,just not where you would find him in a position to be killed.” He took a moment to lick his lips nervously as the once gleeful rubbing of hands turned quickly into nervous twiddling of thumbs. “He is often seen around the center of the scholar district, near the council chambers… usually in the early evening.”

Once he had finished his part of the plan, Ivan turned, without much more then a nod towards Zen indicating only vaguely that he would be waiting outside for the man, his heavy frame causing the already uneven tables to rock back and forth with each footfall as he stormed from the tavern. The final resounding bang of the closing door left both figures of Zen and Dante alone within the little bar to hammer out the few remaining details in the plan. A process that only took but a few moments longer as both men turned to look the other in the eye. Breaking contact only when Dante nodded curtly, accepting his part in the job, and then turning, with a weary sigh, back to his no longer steaming meal.



An Abstract Thought -> RE: Dawning of an Age (5/18/2009 22:08:23)

Chapter 6: In the Dead of Night



Outside the little Tavern the two figures, one both tall and slim, the other short and pudgy, began on their slow journey back towards the very center of the city. The silence that engulfs the two is only broken every once in a while by a soft question from Ivan and a curt, impatient answer from Zen. In all honesty though they have not the time for idle conversation, up ahead, in that little rundown house, the dangerous personage of Ceras Night is waiting for their arrival, all about her the gathered crime lords from about the city and seated, each one most likely uneasy within the current setting. Zen knew what the implications of such a thing could be, if he were but a few moments late his existence for the next few weeks would be one full of both pain and suffering as he was pressed slowly beneath the weight of his mistress’s considerable wrath.

“Here we are…” he finally murmured, the sound of relief evident within his voice. His heart had been racing, but as he checked the position of the stars he was able to breath easy knowing that he had arrived just on time, the plan had gone perfectly. And now the next step could begin without further delay. It would not be long before the rewards of their year long enterprise began to show themselves, and with each step forward they neared their ultimate goal of complete control. All that remained now was to play the final pieces and wait for the chaos to settle once again, or at least that was the idea.

Quietly the two men entered the little house, stepping from the outside world into a little den of quaintly out of place charm. Stretched out upon the far sofa was the delicate figure of the woman who had caused all this to happen. Her creamy white fingers wrapped about a thin wine glass filled to the brim with a fine red liquid. Her icy blue eyes flitted from each new face, her demeanor betraying, if only for a moment, her displeasure at being made to wait even this long for their arrival.

“My humblest apologies miss Night,” Zen said, bowing humbly as he did so. “All is as we planned… The Ghost Talker has taken the job.” He continued as he took a short moment to hit Ivan in the gut with his elbow forcing him into a doubled over bow of pain.

“You have done well, not that I would expect anything less of you.” Came the silky purr of Ceras’s light and fluid voice. Her soft tones almost as intoxicating as the wine she held within her hands. “There is no need to bow here, for here we are all on equal footing.” She continued, stringing along the web of lies regardless of how obvious they were to the dozen or so men that sat nervously about the room. Her free hand extended just enough to indicate a free chair towards the back of the room, into which Zen dutifully pushed the still started form of Ivan Hultz.

“Yes, yes. Here was all indeed all equals in a sense.” Zen replied as he moved to take his place just behind his mistress and his boss. “Made equal in a common cause, the unification of this vast city beneath a single rule,” he continued as he leaned atop the tattered sofa, letting his hand fall upon the shoulder of Ceras. His powerful fingers took the opportunity to begin to offer her at least a semblance of a message as she positioned herself just a bit deeper into the cushions of the couch.

“Well, now that we are at last all here it is time that we begin with our pressing business.” Ceras purred, her voice quiet but her tone and her gaze powerful enough to hold the 12 most powerful men in the underworld of Bel-Thuran deathly quiet in her presence. As she spoke she motioned with her hand for Lucas, her own hired muscle, to move into the only doorway out of and into the house. His very presence would be enough to keep all of the gathered men on edge and off their game, an essential to good negotiations, especially when those negotiations would not be favorable for any but one of the gathered groups.

“You have all been gathered here this day because between you all the power behind this city is held. The influence that guides the will of the people, excluding what little is held by such enigmas as the Ghost Talker and the Order of the Eye, is held by those gathered within this room. And yet, you hold no true power within this city, your hands are tied by the royal command of the throne, regardless of its occupation, and the iron fist of the enforcers.” Ceras began, letting her cold gaze roll across the room as she spoke. “We have a similar goal, a common interest in the unification of this grandiose city beneath a new rule. We both want a new age to dawn, an age run by those who deserve the power, an age of darkness that rallies beneath the control of a master of the underworld. Do not pretend that you have not dreamed of such a day, a day when organized crime can ascend from the shadows and into the light, a day when the oppressed of the world could ascend to a plane more than equal with the nobles who so undeservingly hold the reins of power.”

For but a moment she paused, letting the implications of her words sink in. Her icy gaze drifting from face to face as she studied the expressions of the men gathered about the room. Many had grown intrigued enough by the course of the proposition to forget even the man mountain that stood between them and their only exit. And all about the room the figures leaned closer as expectant faces waited for the nature of this proposition to be completed.

“That is were we; myself, Zen, and Lucas, come in.” she continued allowing the sinister smile that crept up upon her face spread itself across her silky features. “You have the influence over the different areas of the city, but you have not the power to move, nor the anonymity to take on both the enforcers and the nobles, especially not with these rumors of a new heir apparent ascending the throne. We, however, do. We have the skill with magic, the brute strength, and the infallible plan to bring it all together. All we need, or rather all we wish to have from you, for if you refuse we will simply continue on only pausing long enough to add your name unto our list of obstacles, is your cooperation. Leave us free to move as we please…”

“How can you make such a claim,” Lord Reign, the leader of the fraternity of assassins roared his face almost glowing with a ragged red color.

“Indeed, the impedance of such and upstart…” howled Corinth the master of the robber barons, his cane held shaking in the air above his head.

“We have held the power in this city for longer than you have been alive…” came the ragged growl of Lord Von Geran, the ancient leader of the legendary thieves’ guild itself.

But above even the enraged protests of the other men of import came the furious calls of Ivan Hultz. His own reputation already tarnished by the slick turnabout of power that Zen had played upon both Zen and he only a short while before. He could not afford to fall to far a second time in but one day, he had a reputation to maintain, a reputation that was all that bound his men to him. “You dare claim power over even the dark brotherhood itself, you would bend us to your will as if we were pawns to this grand game of yours.” He roared, his face quickly turning from dark red to an even darker purple as his massive frame quivered with rage. “No, we will not bow to your will. Instead you will learn your place in this world, and bow to ou-…”

Slowly the massive man slumped back into his chair, a thin line of red appearing upon his neck. Within moments to little cut began to slowly poor the crimson life force upon the tattered and worm chair. All the while the man gurgled his pent up fury at the indifference of his hosts for the customs of old and the chain of power. His words lost forever to the thin dagger that had flown so expertly from Zen’s out stretched hand. The effect of the motion was almost instantaneous as the remaining eleven moved with panicked haste towards the distant door, only to be sent scurrying back with frightened yelps as Lucas bore down upon them, his gargantuan shadow covering them all in a layer of darkness. Zen merely smiled as he watched their panicked faces turn this way and that as each one searched desperately for another way out.

It was chaos, chaos and confusion for them all, all save the silent form of Demetrious who sat patiently across from Ceras, his deep grey eyes betraying only slightly the deep discomfort he felt in the presence of such destruction. But his calm air was not much of a surprise to even the panicked crime lords that scurried this way and that like chickens without their heads, he was, after all, the man they called the Butcher of Bel-Thuran. His legacy of blood was one that struck terror into the hearts of many, but his band of murderers for hire was skilled enough to earn him a place within the brotherhood after only a few short years of activity.

“You didn’t bring us here merely to butcher us, that would defeat the purpose of killing that fool Hultz without taking the chance to finish the job.” He reasoned, his voice bringing a momentary sense of calm about the room and the other lords took a moments pause to think over this latest revelation.

“That is true,” Zen replied his voice having much the same effect upon the racing hearts of the gathered men. If death was not looming before them these leaders of the underworld were more than willing to accept the death of a rival, it would, after all, afford them new territory to claim and more power to wield in the long run.

“So the question now,” the butcher continued, his gaze focusing itself on the cool and collected figure of Ceras, “is what it is that you want from us, besides freedom to move for we all know you could obtain that simply by killing those in this room, and what you are offering in return.” As he spoke his eyes traced over the crimson gown that fell loosely about Miss Night’s intoxicating form. His interest was not lost upon the object of his open desire, nor was his position as the youngest of the current crime lords lost upon any in the room. Of all the men gathered that day he saw himself as the only with a real chance that cashing in on whatever it was that this dark vixen intended to do, the others, if he understood this game correctly, would play their part then disappear into the night never to be heard from again.

“You flatter me Demetrious with your interest, but you must remember that this is a business partnership,” she replied her voice all but dripping with the undertones of seduction, if this man, so feared even within this circle, was interested enough to be blinded by her looks then he could become a most interesting tool in the very near future. “Still, what you say is true, we do not need you to give us the freedom to move, instead we need you, all of you, to cover our trail for us. Use your connections both inside and outside of the law to ensure that the moves that we do take remain unnoticed by the enforcers and the nobility until it is all but too late. And in return for this simple request we will bring you your new age on a silver platter.” As she spoke her gaze drifted around the room, greeted at each turn by a face of childish glee as the crime lords pieced together their own exit strategy for once she, and her small group, had obtained the reins to the city. Their avarice, and their greed played across their filthy faces contorting each expression into a disgusting shadow of humanity. Ceras could hardly keep her sinister smile long enough to motion for Lucas to herd the group out of the door and out of the house.

“Disgusting creatures, the lot of them…” she sighed as she took a long sip of her wine, letting all of the crimson liquid drain into her mouth before she let the crystal glass fall to the floor, shattering on impact. Still she did not have the time to sit and reflect upon the nature of her hapless company, there were things to be done, steps to be taken. The plan was in full bloom, but its cost was far higher then she would have imagined. It was time to speak with Āiden once more, and so, with an impatient flick of her wrist she sent Zen to fetch the prisoner from whom this entire game had been spawned. It was his mind that carried each winning move, but it was in her hands that the keys to his very life were firmly held.

“Get that body out of here Lucas.” She muttered the big muscle head reentered the room. And as she watched the man mountain pick up both chair and body she herself lifted into a sitting position to await the arrival of both Zen and Āiden. Her hands trembled slightly as she entwined then untwined her fingers about themselves, her skittish nature around the sight of blood was the only chink that she could not so easily disguise about her nature, indeed, the very thought of killing so openly made her shiver in disgust. Her usual creamy white skin, so starkly contrasted to the vibrant red of both her lips and her dress, had grown an even paler shade of white as she eyed the little pool of blood uneasily. She had not been expecting such an overt act to be necessary this early in the game, and she was beginning to have second thoughts about the means to which she was willing to descend to reach her final goals.

Nevertheless, the time for such reflections would have to wait, if only for a short while, for now she could her the approaching steps of both Zen and Āiden. And in their company especially she had to maintain and air of cold indifference towards the wonton killing of needless pawns. And as the chained and broken form of Āiden was thrown before her she leaned in, close enough to smell the decay about the miserable wretch. “You said there wouldn’t be a hitch in the plan,” she murmured, her cold voice sending a chill down even Zen’s rigid spine.

“You said that the killing would not be linked with us, even indirectly…” she continued, drawing each word out to give herself the time to choose just which ones to say next. “And now, now there are eleven men out their, men with influence enough to be the wrench in this otherwise perfect plan of yours, that have seen us kill with our own hands. I would call that a hitch, a mistake, and I want an explanation for this oversight.” As she spoke she placed her hand upon the quivering man’s shoulder, digging in her nails until he was forced onto his knees before her.

“M-miss Night, no revolution can be had without blood, and no plan for such a massive shift in power can be enacted without but a few unforeseen casualties. “ Āiden stammered, his gaze quivering just upon her feet as thin tears dripped from his cheeks and chin. “Do not worry about those poor fools, they are cowardly and weak, nothing like the strong Miss Night. They will fear too greatly for their lives to speak even the hint of a word about what happened here tonight until the time has come for them to disappear into the shadows permanently. The plan needs not be changed, and your next step, ensuring that this Ghost Talker completes his job without mistakes, should be your only concern.” As he finished his miserable report he slunk back upon the floor until his was pressed up against Zen’s sinewy legs in a shivering little ball.

“You had better be right about this,” hissed Ceras as she rose up from the sofa and turned towards one of the doors leading deeper into the little house. “You had better be right or it will be your blood that is pooled around my feet next time, not theirs.” And with one final flick of the wrist commanding Zen to return the pathetic little man back to his cell deep in the basement she disappeared into the maze of rooms that constituted the interior of the ancient little house. Her passage marked only by the clicking of her shoes as she stormed towards her chamber. Behind her both Zen and Lucas went about the business of cleaning up the little house and returning the shaking man to the darkness from which he had been brought. But such was their duty, and both men knew that under the ruthless command of Miss Ceras Night there would be no room to complain.



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